


Man of Means (By No Means)

by Edoraslass



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edoraslass/pseuds/Edoraslass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames and his dog, Mr. Charles wander dusty back roads and ride the rails. Because Eames has no home, nowhere to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man of Means (By No Means)

**Author's Note:**

> For a lost prompt on the kinkmeme

~*~

He’s waiting for a train.

Course, he’s always waiting for a train. The ol’ heel-and-toe express doesn’t get you very far very fast; sticking your thumb out moves you a little faster, but then you have to talk to the fella behind the wheel, and Eames is very tired of answering the questions.

Where you from? Where you going? What kinda work can you do? What kinda accent is that? Were you in the Army? Where’s your family? Why don’t you head for New York, hire on a ship and head on home?

Also hitching’s difficult with a dog, and Eames refuses to abandon Mr. Charles. It’s also gotten a lot harder to jump a boxcar with a dog trailing behind him, but he can’t bring himself to dump Mr. Charles in some no-horse town.

~*~

He doesn’t really remember where he picked up the dog. It was some place flat and dusty, that he knows, and he supposes that it doesn’t actually matter. But it bothers him that he can’t remember.

The dog was lying under the warped boards of a depot platform, staring forlornly at all the bindle stiffs milling around the trainyard. The dog’s chocolate brown fur was covered in dust and burrs; he was thin and had clearly seen better days, much like Eames himself, which is probably why Eames had scratched the mutt behind the ears and given him a hunk of cornbread. Of course the mangy thing had started following him around, and Eames hadn’t had the heart to run him off. 

He’s handy, though, is Mr. Charles. Lots of hobos don’t like dogs – too many of them have had bad experiences with dogs of all shapes and sizes – but the dog’s excellent protection, and it gives Eames a feeling of security to know that someone’s looking out for his well-being, even if it’s just a scroungy mutt with more balls than sense.

~*~

He’s been pushing this same broom in this same roadside motel forever, or at least that’s how it feels, because all roadside motels look the same after a year or two on the road, and Eames has been on the road a great deal longer than a year or two.

It’s more like moving dust from one spot to another than actually sweeping; these roadside motels are also all alike in that they never seem to be _really_ clean. The owners try to keep their places presentable – well, some of them do – but in the middle of nowhere when business is slow or non-existent, it’s sometimes more effort that it’s worth to keep dirt and sand from seeping into the rooms.

Eames doesn’t mind the apparent futility of the work or a little dust in his bed; he’s had worse flops than an eight by twelve room, and how. He doesn’t mind that there’s no phone, as he’s got no-one to call, doesn’t mind that there’s no pool, as he doesn’t know how to swim, and as for the no pets….well, let’s just say Eames is a persuasive man, and he can usually sweet-talk the motel owner into letting Mr. Charles stay in the room. 

And when he can’t, Mr. Charles still ends up sleeping under the bed.

~*~

It’s one in the morning, and Eames is trying to catch forty winks in the corner of a nearly-empty boxcar attached to a north-bound train. He’s not sure exactly where it’s headed, but the destination is hardly the point.

Mr. Charles is curled up beside him, head resting on Eames’ thigh. The rocking motion of the train is usually more than enough to lull Eames to sleep; the clacking of the train’s wheels against the tracks is normally soothing, but right now, the sound reminds Eames of nothing more than machine-gun fire.

Tonight his head won’t quit thinking and he’s not quite certain why. 

He can’t remember how he got here, is the thing. He remembers doing handywork for an angel of a housewife, remembers that she gave him a fat ham sandwich and a soup bone for Mr. Charles. He remembers that goddamn railroad bull Arthur showing up yet again and telling Eames that he need to come with him, but Eames doesn’t need three squares and a cot so badly that he’d stroll right into the hoosegow for them.

After that, he only remembers being in this boxcar that smells faintly of mildew and molasses.

~*~

Another day, another dilapidated town a million miles from civilization. It’s hot and humid and Eames is stripped down to his undershirt as he mops the floor of the town’s one diner. He’s been at it for an hour, maybe two, and not a single customer has come in. In fact, he hasn’t seen a living soul since he picked up the mop, not even the proprietor or the waitress.

Perhaps not unreasonably, he thinks of all those tiny little towns in horror novels, the ones which seem picturesque enough until the townsfolk drag an unsuspecting stranger off to be sacrificed to flesh-eating chickens. 

“Eames.” 

He looks up to see a tallish blondish man watching him from behind the lunch counter. It’s not the man who owns the place, but he seems familiar. He’s dressed like an undertaker, or maybe a Bible salesman.

“Eames, you need to come with me,” the man says. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

Eames leans against the mop. “And where am I supposed to be, mate?”

“This isn’t real,” the man goes on. “You know that none of this is real.”

“Seems real enough to me,” Eames shrugs, returning to his task. 

“How did you get here?” the man asks. He sounds like a teacher asking a trick question.

“Same as any other fella,” Eames replies. He can feel the other man’s eyes on him. Mr. Charles is lying in front of the doorway, head on his paws but gaze alert. “Hopped a train and got off when it stopped.”

“Where were you before you were here?”

Eames keeps shoving the mop around. The water’s getting dirtier but the faded linoleum’s not getting any cleaner. A string mop is no match for years and years of grime ground in by endless bootheels.

He can’t remember the name of the town before this one. He’s tried – he always tries – but the name won’t come. He doesn’t know why it’s important; all these little towns look the same anyway: a post office, a diner or two, a short row of shops, a gas station, a church, a motel. A train depot, a bone orchard. Sometimes an orphanage or a prison. A handful of people. They all look the same, too, in every lonely burg along the line, as faded-out and non-descript as the buildings.

“It’s not real, Eames.” The man’s voice is soft and persuasive, reasonable. “You’re in Limbo.”

The word rings a faint, distant bell, almost a warning, but after a moment, Eames shakes it off. Mr. Charles raises his head and growls, squinting at the man. Eames has never seen a dog that squints before.

“I don’t think he likes you,” Eames says, a hint of threat in his tone. He stops mopping, gives the blond man a thin, dangerous smile, and plants himself like a palooka waiting for the fight to start. “I’m inclined to trust his judgment.” 

Mr. Charles is standing now, legs stiff, hackles raised, growl lower and more primal. All Eames has to do is snap his fingers, bat an eyelid, and Mr. Charles will leap at the blond man, tear his throat out.

The blond man’s no fool, or at least he’s not _that_ foolish. “All right,” he sighs, holding his hands up and backing away slowly. “But I’m not the enemy, Eames. We’re just trying to get you back home. You don’t belong here.”

Eames watches as the other man turns and walks into kitchen, and presumably, out the back door into the alley. He doesn’t relax his posture until Mr. Charles lies back down on the floor. 

“No-one belongs here,” he tells the dog, who only squints at him.

~*~

“Mr. Eames.”

He’d know that voice anywhere. “Mr. Arthur.”

Eames just stays where he is, sprawled out on the one bench in front of the depot, flat cap over his face. Mr. Charles makes a quiet wuffing sound from underneath the bench, but doesn’t bark. The dog stopped growling at Arthur a long time again, yet another thing Eames doesn’t understand.

“Where are you headed?”

God, how Eames hates that question. “I’ll take the midnight train goin’ aaanyyywhere.” He sings the last word, and something about that strikes him as off, but he doesn’t know why.

Arthur chuckles softly; Eames has never heard that sound from that man before, so he takes his hat off his face and sits up. “This a new procedure?” he asks, narrowing his eyes against the sun. “Cozy up to the bums before arresting them?”

Arthur moves so the sun’s not directly behind him. He’s wearing a spotless navy pinstripe suit that fits him flawlessly; the matching fedora’s at a flattering angle, casting the planes of his sharp cheekbones in shadow, making him look dangerous and, somehow, more familiar than he ought to be. 

He shows up here and there; sometimes in a trainyard, sometimes in a café or ambling down the main street. Eames has never seen him throw a fella into the paddywagon or swing at a hobo with a nightstick, but Eames knows the walk. It’s a law-and-order walk, the walk of a confident, well-fed man who never wonders where he’s sleeping at night., who's never doubted himself.

“Not here to arrest you, Eames,” Arthur says evenly. “Just here to get you out. You know this isn’t right. Do you even know where you are?”

Eames glances towards the sign hanging from the corner of the depot office. The name of the town’s supposed to be written there, but it’s so weather-faded he can’t make out any letters. 

“Doesn’t much matter,” he shrugs, reaching to scratch behind Mr. Charles’ ears as the dog’s nose bumps into his leg. “One place is as good as the next.” 

Arthur sighs, comes to sit next to Eames on the bench. “This is Limbo, Eames,” he says, more patient than Eames has ever heard him, which is ridiculous, because Eames doesn’t know this fella, doesn’t know what he normally sounds like. He just shows up like a bad penny, always with the trying to get Eames to go with him somewhere. He’ll disappear like he always does, eventually. 

“The Thompson job, remember? It went all to hell. The chemist was an asshole, didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. You had a bad reaction to the Somnacin.”

Something’s stirring in the back of Eames mind. Mr. Charles whimpers, and moves closer to Eames’ leg. 

Arthur’s gaze is unwavering. Eames can tell from the set of his shoulders that he’s tense, worried, and again Eames has no idea why he knows that, knows what Arthur’s body posture means.

“Only Thompson I know is an out-of-work factory man,” Eames says, leaning back against the bench, making a big production of patting his pockets for the stogie he picked up off the ground earlier in the day. “Don’t know any chemists; not a lot of college boys out here. Except you, of course.”

Arthur chuckles again, and Mr. Charles whines. When Eames looks down, the dog is squinting at him. He raises a paw and places it on Eames’ knee. When Eames doesn’t respond, Mr. Charles stands, walks over to Arthur, and licks his hand. 

“You don’t belong here, Eames.” Arthur’s voice is soft, persuasive. Reasonable, like the blond man’s had been, but this time, Mr. Charles doesn’t turn threatening and protective. Instead, he whines again, and butts Arthur’s hip with his nose. 

Arthur obligingly strokes the dog’s head, never taking his eyes off of Eames. “You need to come with me,” he says, like a broken record. “You need to come home.”

Abruptly Eames is very angry. “I understand you’ve got it swell, Arthur,” he bites off every word and spits it out, “you’ve got a job and enough money coming in to waste it on flashy clothes, but these days, most people don’t have that kind of luck. Most of us have to make do with picking up odd jobs and wearing an old worn-out suit and shoes.”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth quirks up briefly. “And you don’t pay no union dues.”

Eames has no idea what the hell that’s supposed to mean, and is a little frightened when he hears it repeated in his head, set to music.

Arthur looks steadily at Eames, gaze warm and maybe even fond. “ _You_ dressed me like this.” It’s a simple, matter-of-fact statement that shouldn’t kindle heat in Eames’ stomach, but it does. There’s no reason it should give Eames a short, vivid flash of his hands knotting the cool green silk of Arthur’s tie.

Mr. Charles is still not doing a single thing that could be taken as aggressive, and this infuriates Eames even more. “And what the fuck have you done to my dog?” he demands. 

Arthur remains where he is. “I haven’t done anything to your dog,” he replies calmly, and Eames is boggled at the sheer audacity of the lie. “He knows I’m not a threat. He knows this isn’t right. He _wants_ me to help. He wants you to come home as much as I do.”

“Fuck you,” Eames snaps, and Mr. Charles’ ears perk up. “I’m sure you’ve got a gorgeous penthouse somewhere back East, filled with ridiculous furniture and a – “ he starts to say _wife_ but something’s wrong about that “ – and someone waiting for you with your slippers, a martini, and dinner on the stove, but not all of us have a home, Arthur. Not all of us have something to go back _to_.”

Arthur blinks. “Oh,” he says softly, drawing into himself a little, hand falling away from Mr. Charles. “Oh. Is that what this is about?”

Mr. Charles pads over to where Eames is standing, sits on his left foot. Eames would notice and feel vindicated that his dog’s no longer sucking up to Arthur, but inexplicably, Arthur’s not wearing the navy pinstripes anymore. Now he’s wearing a uniform, the uniform of a railroad, blue trousers and a jacket with lots of gold buttons and the hat to match, a nightstick hanging from his belt. 

Eames backs away, panic starting to wash over him. “What the fuck,” he stammers. “What the – how did you – what the _fuck_?”

“I didn’t do anything, Eames,” Arthur replies; there are tight lines of tension at the corners of his eyes. “You did. Limbo, remember? This – “ he waves a hand around to encompass the depot, the trainyard, the entire town – “this is all you.”

~*~

Eames is in a boxcar, yet again. There are a couple of fellas asleep in the corner, curled up together and covered in old grain sacks; three more scattered around, huddled in on themselves . The air’s brisk enough to make Eames wish he had a watchman’s cap – and heavier socks, and a warmer coat and hell, while he’s dreaming, maybe a sweater and a hot cup of joe as well. But that’s not his lot, so he’s got to be content with the heat of Mr. Charles’ body pressed up against his. “Don’t suppose you know where we’re going, boy,” he whispers to the dog.

 _Destination, Bangor, Maine_ echoes through Eames head in reply, and the chill that goes down his spine has nothing to do with the autumn weather. Mr. Charles moves closer, and for the first time, Eames sincerely wishes the fucking dog would just let him be.

~*~

They keep on the move, because there’s nothing else for them to do. A little carpentry, a little wood-chopping, a hell of a lot of yard work for a gorgeous French dame with faraway eyes and a tendency to start rambling poetry. She unnerves Eames, badly, and after the fifth time she spouts off Neruda at him, Eames drops the rake, picks up his gear, and all but runs away from her.

~*~

Eames sees the furtive glow of a fire up ahead, and his shoulders droop in relief. Sleeping out’s bad enough without a hot meal, and it’s not likely to be anything other than the can of beans he’s got in his bindle unless he can cage a little potato water, but it’s better than just cold beans.

There’s only one fella by the fire, which is unusual, but Eames isn’t in the mood to question Providence right now. “Got room for a couple more?”

Mr. Charles gives a short bark – a greeting bark, not a warning bark – and bounds right over to the man. Eames is taken aback; Mr. Charles isn’t overly friendly to anyone, and he’s downright shocked when the fella turns out to be Arthur. 

“Eames,” he says, scratching Mr. Charles’ ears. “You’re a hard man to find.”

“That oughta tell you something,” Eames growls out. “You following me now? Can’t say the nighthawk looks suits you.”

Except it does. He’s only ever seen Arthur in his uniform _(or that suit)_ , spit-and-polished within an inch of his life. He’s never seen Arthur in workman’s trousers and a threadbare shirt, in a padded jacket that’s seen better days, sprung-out shoes and a flat cap. He’s never seen Arthur’s hair curling softly around his ears, or a five o’ clock shadow on Arthur’s jaw. 

Except that he has. He knows what it feels like to bury his hands in Arthur’s hair when it’s wet and dripping, knows how that stubble feels when it’s scraping against his neck. 

Mr. Charles whines eagerly, pushing his nose against Arthur’s pocket; Arthur laughs, sticks his hand in, pulls out what looks like half a sandwich, and offers it to the dog, who promptly grabs the whole thing in his mouth. 

“What the bloody hell is going on here?” Eames tries to say it angrily, authoritatively, but instead, it comes out almost pleading. 

Arthur looks up at him, and the fire’s not putting off much light, but Eames can see the other man clear as day. Arthur looks tired, haggard, almost desperate. “I didn’t think you were serious,” he says, apropos of nothing, as far as Eames can tell. “I thought you were just, you know, spewing out every thought that comes into your head like you normally do.” As if Arthur knows what Eames “normally” does.

He runs a hand over his face wearily. “Do you really want to retire?”

“Retire?” Eames scoffs; he’s pissed off that Arthur’s shown up in the middle of nowhere when he’s ready to bed down for the night, but he can’t keep himself from edging towards the fire to warm up his numb fingers. “Retire from what, Arthur? One must have a _job_ in order to retire.”

Arthur stands up; Mr. Charles gives him a disinterested glance, and goes back to mauling the sandwich. “I didn’t think you were serious,” Arthur repeats. “I certainly didn’t know you were _this_ serious.”

Eames thinks he should turn and walk away, flee into the night and be damned if the dog follows him or not, but there’s something in Arthur’s eyes that won’t let him move so much as an eyelash. The way Arthur’s moving towards him that makes Eames’ chest ache and swell and hold his breath. 

Arthur stops in front of him, wraps his hands around Eames’, and Eames wants to punch him or snarl something vicious, push Arthur away, but he doesn’t. 

“Eames,” Arthur murmurs, and oh, that rings a bell, that rings a fucking _gong_. “You can _have_ a home. _We_ can have a home, if that’s what you want. I can’t…I can’t be waiting for you with your slippers and a martini, and I think we both agree it would be better if I didn’t try to have dinner on the table – “

-a snort of laughter escapes Eames and he almost knows why – 

“ – and I can’t promise that _I_ won’t want to work, but _you_ don’t have keep it up if you don’t want to.” He lays a hand against Eames’ face, brushes his thumb over Eames’ mouth. “I’m not going to leave you just because you’re tired of running.”

And that’s it, isn’t it. Eames is tired, so very tired, of being constantly on the move. He’s done nothing but roam since they turned him out of the boys’ home at eighteen, since he took his unauthorized leave of the military, since he got into dreamsharing and had to keep hopping to stay ahead of the many, many people who wish him ill. 

He’s too old to keep this up much longer, and he doesn’t want to. Maybe he doesn’t want to stay in one place 365 days a year, because that would be stifling, but he wants to finally put down roots. At least try it on, see how it fits.

He’d said as much to Arthur, one night over a bottle of rum in Rio, and he’d been as serious as he was drunk, but Arthur had only chuckled fuzzily, peeled off his shirt, and climbed into Eames’ lap, which was certainly distraction enough for Eames to forget what they’d been talking about. 

But he hadn’t forgotten, of course. Nothing’s ever forgotten. Not even when you set out deliberately to forget.

~*~

He remembers talking to Arthur, remembers Arthur saying something important, vital, something _real_ –then it was morning, and he and Mr. Charles were waking up asleep on the cold ground around the dead fire. Arthur had vanished, and no trace of him anywhere. But he doesn’t know how long ago that was.

~*~

Arthur starts showing up everywhere, and that’s not an exaggeration. Eames flags down a car; Arthur’s behind the wheel. Eames walks into a dry goods store looking for a little work; Arthur’s working stock in the backroom. Eames finds a nice dry haystack to sleep in; Arthur’s already there, a worn blanket wrapped around his shoulders, snoring fit to beat the band.

Once Eames walks into a bar and literally every person in the room is Arthur. For a long endless moment, Eames can’t move or breathe or think; then something nebulous shifts in the air, and there’s just one Arthur, behind the bar, but Eames is so terrified that he turns on his heel, walks straight back out of that joint, and doesn’t stop walking until he careens right into a Burma Shave sign cause he’s asleep on his feet.

Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. He has no idea why the other man’s dogging him so relentlessly. Or rather, he has an idea, a tiny inkling of an idea, but he refuses to take it out and examine it more closely.

~*~

Eames hasn’t seen a car in hours. Mr. Charles is roaming out in front of him, occasionally loping off across the countryside to chase a rabbit or squirrel or jackalope, for all Eames knows, he never sees anything.

He hasn’t seen another person in days, either. Just him and Mr. Charles and a long stretch of empty highway. He thinks he passed a marker a couple hours back, promising a town in ten miles, but he might have dreamed that.

Again he’s not sure how he got here, wherever “here” might be, but he’s finally getting used to that. He doesn’t want to get used to that; he wants to fight and rail against the grey haze that should be memories, but after all this time, Eames isn’t sure what the point is. Isn’t sure why he cares.

Abruptly buildings loom up from the prairie. He blinks at them in surprise; he can’t possibly have walked ten miles already. He must’ve read the sign wrong, must’ve been just one mile and his tired brain slapped a zero on there because it always feels like the end of the journey is never in sight. 

Not that this is the end. It’s just a waystation. There’s no end the road for Eames. There’s just an endless journey to nowhere.

_(You can have a home. We can have a home, if that’s what you want.)_

The echoing voice is faint, but as clear as if Arthur was standing next to him, and it stops Eames cold in his tracks. He looks around, as if Arthur will appear as unexpectedly as the town did, but of course Eames is alone. 

He lets out a sharp whistle, and Mr. Charles comes out of the tall, dead grass, carrying something in his mouth, something small enough that Eames can’t make out what it is.

The dog stops by Eames’ feet, drops the object to the ground, and looks up at Eames. Red flashes briefly in the dust; Eames frowns, and hunkers down to see that it’s a die. “Well, what the fuck?” he mutters, picking it up. “Where’d you get this, boy?”

Mr. Charles barks once, and licks Eames’ face. His breath doesn’t smell like anything.

~*~

Eames trades out a couple hours’ work for a small dingy motel room, and now he’s sitting at the table with a dry porkchop and a bottle of rye. He hasn’t touched either one. He’s mesmerized by the red die; keeps throwing it over and over. Six. Four. Three. Six. Two.

_(you don’t have keep it up if you don’t want to. I’m not going to leave you just because you’re tired of running)_

There’s something welling up inside him. Something important, vital, _real_. Something as delicate as a soap-bubble, and he’s afraid to look directly at it. It shimmers in the corner of his awareness and all at once, he’s so very, very exhausted. He wants to just lie down on the undoubtedly lumpy mattress and just….let go. Stop this nonsense. Nail his feet to the ground and open a bar or something equally ridiculous. Just – give in. 

It’s crossed his mind before, but before, the notion has never set right. Has frightened him, to be honest. It’s never been the right place, the right time, the right _him_. He wonders what has changed, and there’s that shimmer again, just out of sight.

Mr. Charles is scratching at the door, whining, but it’s not his I-need-to-go-outside-before-I-make-a-mess whine, it’s his something’s-out-there whine, so Eames ignores him. Probably a cat or a rabbit; he’ll go back to sleep as soon as it moves on.

The red die gleams up at him from the table top. It means something, of course, it has to. He picks it up between his thumb and forefinger, holds it up to the light. He brings it right up to his eye, like he’s expecting to see something in its plastic depths, but there’s nothing, of course. It’s just a red die. 

_Arthur_ , he thinks for no reason, and to his utter shock, the die pulses between his fingers, like a heartbeat. “Fuck!” Eames yelps, leaping to his feet and hurling the die across the room. “What the _fuck_?” 

Mr. Charles looks up at the _tick_ of plastic against the floor, then the dog gets to his feet, retrieves the die, brings it back over, and drops it in front of Eames’ shoe, then sits there, tail wagging, presumably waiting for Eames throw it again.

Eames will be goddamned if he’s going to touch that fucking thing, but he gets down on his knees so he can look at it more closely. It’s trembling, as if vibration tremors from the floor were causing it to move, but the floor’s not – 

Wait.

The floor _is_ quivering, and a man such as Eames has been for who-knows-how-long knows what causes that particular type of vibration. 

An approaching train. But there’s no train in this town. Not even old, unused tracks.

The shrill, ear-piercing whistle nearly makes Eames jump out of his skin. Mr. Charles barks excitedly, running over to the door, clawing at it a little frantically, and Eames should open the door, he should, before the dog ruins it and he’s got to find some way to pay for the damage but he’s rooted to the spot, terrified of what he might find on the other side. 

_(You can have a home. We can have a home, if that’s what you want)_

Mr.Charles is leaping into the air, barking happily, entire body wriggling. He darts over to Eames, and oh-so-gently, takes Eames’ hand in his mouth. He tugs carefully, and Eames doesn’t want to follow him but when he tries to pull his hand free, the dog whimpers and presses down with his teeth, not enough to break the skin, but enough to make it clear that he’s not letting go.

Eames doesn’t think Mr. Charles wouldn’t actually bite him, but he’s never see the dog act this way before. “No,” he says, and it comes out as a whisper instead of stern. “You don’t know what’s out there.”

Mr. Charles tugs again, more tenaciously this time, and Eames has to take a step forward or risk those teeth sinking deeper, drawing blood. The second step is easier, and although the fear hasn’t lessened, that sense of something important lurking just out of sight has suddenly, almost painfully become larger, more insistent. 

It’s a tiny room, but the trip to the door seems endless. He stands there, staring at it, and Eames finds that he can’t catch his breath; the air has gone thick and it’s like moving through a dream, where you can’t – 

_(like moving through a dream)_

Eames wrenches his hand from the dog’s mouth, heedless of what damage might be inflicted, grasps the doorknob, and flings the door wide open. 

There are no tracks in this town, but there’s a train right there, rocketing towards him, brakes shrieking in protest, steam billowing from the smokestack, sparks flying from the wheels. Eames stumbles backwards, not that it’ll do him any good if the train goes barreling off the rails, and Mr. Charles is barking deliriously, running along the tracks as if someone he knows and hasn’t seen for months is about to arrive.

Impossibly, the engine stops directly in front of Eames, and he knows who the engineer is before the steam has even cleared away. 

Arthur’s wearing blue jeans and a red t-shirt which declares that he misses Pluto. Eames remembers that shirt, remembers pulling it over Arthur’s head and burying his face in Arthur’s neck, remembers Arthur’s fingers clenching in his hair as he drew Eames down to the bed. That was three years ago, in Belgrade. They’d run into each other on the street, and all at once it had been the right time, the right place, the right _them_. 

“You – you brought a train,” Eames says stupidly. It’s the only thing he can think to say.

“I didn’t bring it, it brought me,” Arthur says tonelessly from the engineer’s seat. He looks about half a step from total defeat. “This is all you, Eames. This is – “

“Are you real?” Eames blurts out, involuntarily moving towards the engine, towards Arthur. “I keep – I keep seeing you everywhere, you can’t be real _everywhere_ \- “

“I’m real,” Arthur says, coming down the stairs out of the cab. He’s moving very slowly, as if he’s afraid Eames is going to bolt. “I don’t know about everywhere, but I’m real _here_ , Eames.”

Mr. Charles lets out an excited yip and bounds past Arthur into the engineer’s seat. 

“Are you?” Eames repeats, insides knotted tight. “Are you really?”

Arthur comes closer, half an arm’s length away. There are dark circles of weariness under his eyes. “I am,” he replies, reaching out cautiously and laying his hand on Eames’ shoulder. “Really.”

Eames grabs Arthur’s wrist and pulls him close, clinging too tightly. “You feel real,” he murmurs into the curve of Arthur’s neck, savouring the scent and heat and the length of Arthur’s body shaking against him.

“I am,” Arthur breathes. “Please, Eames – “

“How do I know?” Eames doesn’t want to ask, but he can’t trust himself in this. All the people he’s met along the way, every hobo, housewife, cook, and priest he’s talked to all seemed real enough. All the hundreds of Arthurs _felt_ real. How does he know this is the right one?

Arthur pulls away, although reluctantly, far enough away that Eames can’t reel him back in with just a stretch of his arm. “You have to trust me,” this Arthur says, eyes somber, pleading. “Have I ever lied to you when it mattered?”

Of course any projection of Arthur would say the same thing, because that’s what Eames would expect him to say. That’s what Eames would _want_ him to say. 

“I don’t – how can I prove I’m not a projection, Eames?” There’s a terrible hitch in Arthur’s voice, and he takes a deep breath to steady himself. “What do you want me to do?”

Eames wants to believe, with every fiber of his being. He wants out of here, he wants out of Limbo, away from all this pointless wandering, wants to follow Arthur, go to sleep with him every night and wake up to him every morning, argue over the washing-up, and have Arthur yell at him for folding the towels wrong. He wants that so badly it makes his teeth ache.

But if this Arthur isn’t the right one, going with him will just be going deeper into Limbo. He doesn’t know what he wants Arthur to do, doesn’t know what will convince him. 

There’s an irritated bark; reflexively Eames glances towards Mr. Charles, who’s still in the engineer’s seat. He’s regarding Eames, head cocked to one side, a distinctly undog-like expression of impatience and exasperation on his face. The dog barks again, and there’s something….beseeching about the sound that tears at Eames’ heart for reasons he doesn’t understand. 

_I’m inclined to trust his judgment._

Arthur is waiting for Eames to speak. He’s got his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans; his head’s cocked to one side, exasperation and impatience on his face. Eames blinks, looks back to Mr. Charles, then again at Arthur. Arthur’s posture is a perfect mirror of Mr. Charles’. 

_Of course._

“Please, Eames,” Arthur says softly, beseechingly, and Eames can’t keep back a choked sob. 

“All right,” he agrees after a long, silent moment. “All right.”

Arthur’s body sags with what must be sheer relief, but his gaze is still wary and anxious, as if he’s afraid Eames is going to run and they’ll have to start this all over. Wordlessly, he holds out his hand, and Eames hesitates for the barest instant, but Arthur catches it nonetheless and fear sparks briefly in his eyes.

If it’s not the real Arthur, if this is just a projection, at least he’ll be off the road. If it’s not the real Arthur, he can shoot himself out. And if he can’t remember to do that, well, they’ll have a home anyway, won’t they?

 _In for a penny_ , Eames thinks. He takes Arthur’s hand, allows himself to be led onto the train. 


End file.
